


Am I Not Merciful?

by orphan_account



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aramis Whump, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rape, Torture, Violence, WIP, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-20 14:16:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3653481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the kink meme: Rochefort has his revenge on Aramis. Torture, rape, what it says on the label.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this kink meme prompt:
> 
>  
> 
> _Finale: Rochefort gets his revenge (partly) on Aramis!_
> 
>  
> 
> _I just saw the finale and my whumpy heart was very sad that Milady saved Aramis before anything happened to him. Can anyone please write a version where he is saved later and the Queen and everyone see what has been done to him an everyone is beeing all worried and protective? Maybe allready while it is happening (maybe Rochefort informs them in between)? Torture, darker stuff, whatever you want, just write something please^^!_
> 
>  
> 
> (http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/2286.html?thread=3408878#cmt3408878)
> 
> ___
> 
> I know little of torture devices beyond my limited research, so please forgive any inaccuracies or anachronisms for the sake of the torture porn >:D

“Stop.” Rochefort’s voice followed the slap of the scourge meeting flesh. A huff of breath escaped Aramis’ tightened lips. 

The interrogator let the whip fall still at his side, its thongs curling their red-tipped fingers against his leg. He made no protest, but Rochefort thought he saw a touch of disappointment in the man’s eyes. One he shared. He had rather enjoyed watching as the musketeer’s back was flayed—how he shuddered with each lash of the whip that tore at his flesh. Not that Rochefort intended to spare Aramis for long.

“Step aside, and give me that,” Rochefort snarled, taking the scourge from the man as he bowed hastily and retreated to a darkened corner. With a smile, Rochefort stepped behind the musketeer and hefted the whip in his hand. As he surveyed his prisoner, his smile deepened.

Aramis was stripped bare, his arms shackled and stretched high toward the ceiling, enough so that only the balls of his feet touched the stone floor. The lithe muscles along his shoulders and back quivered under the strain. glistening with sweat and blood in the low torch light. Rochefort simply watched Aramis for a moment—his sides heaving with short, frantic breaths—before stepping closer.

“Aramis...” Rochefort said, his voice pitched low. “I am disappointed. You have not said a word.” He trailed the thongs of the scourge along the wounds that criss-crossed his back, and Aramis flinched at the ghosting touch with a pained hiss.

“I will not confess. I would gladly give my life before condemning the Queen.” To his credit, the musketeer’s voice was steady. But the flinty glare of defiance he shot over his shoulder was rather lessened by the look of him—one eye bruised, lip split and trailing blood into his goatee.

“And so you will forfeit your life. But, no, I no longer desire to hear such things from you.” Rochefort leaned in close, and as he spoke, his breath stirred the dark hair at Aramis’ temple. “I want to hear you beg for my mercy.”

The musketeer parted his lips but then pressed them shut quickly, holding back whatever it was he had intended to say. Some platitude about bravery or honor, no doubt. Or love. Rochefort sneered and stepped back.

“Very well. I shall have to persuade you.”

Before the echo of his words had died in the chamber, he reared back his arm and flung the tendrils of the scourge with all his strength. The whip caught the small of Aramis’ back and he arched away from its biting cords. He let out a gasp before swallowing it back into a low moan.

Rochefort was careful with his lashes, alternating his aim between swaths of untouched skin and raw stripes already laid open and weeping. He then moved the scourge lower to strike at the tender flesh of Aramis’ backside and thighs. A particularly savage blow curled around the musketeer’s hip and drew out a strangled cry of pain. Rochefort felt his limbs thrill at the sight. At how the man’s taut body flexed and heaved and shivered with each strike.

Had he responded in such a way, Rochefort wondered, to Anne’s gentle touch? Had she trembled helplessly beneath his? Rochefort’s mouth went suddenly dry and he paused. For a moment, he could hear only Aramis’ panting breaths and the squeak of the scourge’s leather handle in his clenching grip, but all was soon overpowered by the rush of blood pounding in his ears.

“Tie him to the table,” Rochefort commanded the interrogator, his voice sounding choked even to himself. “Then leave us.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This installment features The Pear of Anguish (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Choke_pear_%28torture%29), so proceed with caution (or anticipation).
> 
> The next chapter will have the rape scene, I promise. I planned to include it in this update but I’m still writing and I didn’t want to make everyone wait any longer.

Aramis lay stomach-down against the narrow table, his hips and legs off the edge and his ankles tied with rope to the table’s legs. His wrists were bound together and secured to a metal ring in the tabletop, pulling his arms taut enough before him that he could barely raise up on his elbows. He had eventually given up his fruitless efforts to pull free of the bounds, but not before amusing Rochefort with his struggles.

Satisfied with the arrangement, Rochefort moved to stand in front of Aramis, letting his eye rove slowly over his face and body. The musketeer narrowed his eyes at Rochefort’s scrutiny.

“I suppose you are handsome enough,” Rochefort said finally. “But why would Her Majesty choose _you_? A lowly musketeer...”

“Instead of you?” Aramis’ lips curled into a derisive smirk. “I would think the answer rather obvious.”

Rochefort clenched his jaw against the flare of anger that engulfed him and he was forced to draw upon all his restraint so as not to throttle Aramis then and there. It would not do to be provoked, or to allow his fury to be vented too quickly. He waited until the heat roiling beneath his skin abated slightly. It would have its outlet. And the musketeer would not be smiling soon enough.

“You and I are actually quite alike in some ways, Musketeer. You believe your love for the Queen is true and enduring. I know mine is.” As he spoke, Rochefort unhurriedly walked to a shelf along the wall and selected an implement from among the many devices laid there. He rolled the instrument between his hands, feeling its weight, as he returned before Aramis. “My mettle has already been tested. We shall see what yours can withstand.”

Rochefort opened his hands with a small flourish to reveal the device resting heavy in his palm. Aramis cast a wary look on the thing, obviously not comprehending its purpose, or else surely there would be some fear in his dark eyes.

“The Pear of Anguish,” Rochefort said, not bothering to hide his pleasure. “Quite aptly named, I’m sure.”

He took a step closer and held out the pear. The implement was shaped like its namesake—an elongated metal bulb divided lengthwise into four segments, each with a fine point at the end. At its stem was a key-like crank, which Rochefort grasped and began to turn. As the key rotated, the four leaves spread apart, widening further and further.

The look that washed over Aramis’ face then made his understanding plain. He visibly swallowed and screwed his eyes shut before directing them heavenward.

“Now you understand.” Rochefort loosed a dry, humorless chuckle as he closed the pear. “Shall we begin?”

Rochefort walked slowly down the length of the table, running his free hand along Aramis’ body as he passed. Aramis did not move, though he must have been fighting against the need to cover himself somehow—to free himself of the rope holding his legs apart. 

Aramis finally gave a satisfying flinch as Rochefort grasped one cheek of his ass. Roughly, he dug his gloved fingers into the firm muscle and pushed it to the side, exposing the musketeer fully. With a mockery of tenderness, Rochefort circled his thumb against the tightly puckered flesh and sneered as Aramis drew in a quick, shallow breath.

Seeing the man so vulnerable—powerless—ignited every nerve in Rochefort and imbued him with heady exhilaration. Eagerly, he maneuvered the pointed ends of the pear to the clenched ring of muscle and pushed. The tips of the leaves sank inside and Aramis jerked his hips forward, but there was no room for him to escape the metal instrument.

With deliberation, Rochefort continued to press the pear forward, watching with cruel pleasure as Aramis’ body was forced to stretch around the thickest portion of the bulb. He paused as the musketeer strained against the device filling him, and then thrust it forward fully with one quick, relentless motion. Aramis keened at the intrusion, the muscles along his back and legs twitching as he writhed.

Rochefort smiled and waited. When the musketeer’s groan died away, he pushed at the handle of the pear once more and was met with firm resistance, the thing buried to the hilt. Carefully, he turned the key.

Though he did not cry out, Aramis moaned through his clenched teeth and each shaky breath was an obvious effort.

Rochefort turned the key again. And again. Again.

Each turn unmade Aramis little by little, and Rochefort wondered if—by the end of it—he would be able to know the exact measure of the musketeer’s agony by the catch in his breath. The pitch of his screams. The violence of his trembling limbs and wracked muscles.

He widened the pear again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The moment you've all been waiting for? Thank you for your patience, everyone, and for your lovely comments!

There was something exquisite about such suffering. After the pear was fully expanded, Rochefort stepped back to admire the tableau so finely laid before him. 

The musketeer had buried his face between his forearms, pressing his nose to the rough-hewn table, but he could not conceal the tight breaths and whimpers that escaped his raw throat. Bent forward as he was, the lash marks along his shoulder blades and the planes of his back stood out like broad strokes of red ink, wet with new blood. Whether from pain or exertion, his body shuddered uncontrollably.

Minutes passed before Rochefort resumed his position behind him. Aramis tensed at the movement, quieting as he held his breath. Rochefort grasped the pear roughly, but paused, unsure of exactly how to proceed since the key would turn no further. 

A moment later, he twisted his wrist—and the device—back and forth, which made the musketeer straighten. Rochefort then pulled at the handle, sliding out the narrower end of the pear slightly, before thrusting it back in against protesting muscles. The movement wrested a startled wail from Aramis that tapered into a low groan.

Pleased, Rochefort repeated the motion, pistoning the instrument in and out in a deliberate, lewd rhythm. The musketeer flinched and Rochefort’s hips twitched forward of their own accord in time with the pear. Each thrust stoked the fire smoldering low in Rochefort’s belly as his anger was gradually overpowered by an unseemly desire. He watched the implement plunge again into Aramis’ abused, stretched body and felt his cock grow painfully hard. 

_He_ had to be inside him. 

The impulse was so urgent that Rochefort nearly yanked out the pear all at once, but he managed to stay his hand, his grip shaking with anticipation. He mustn’t ruin the musketeer completely—he had yet to sample him, after all.

With fraying patience, he turned the key the opposite way and closed the pear measure by measure. Still, he left the leaves slightly parted as he pulled the device free. Aramis bucked at the sensation, an animalistic noise ripping from his chest. There was no relief in the ragged sigh that chased after it.

Quickly, Rochefort dropped the pear to the stone floor with a clatter and removed his gloves, letting them, too, fall carelessly to the ground. With one hand, he palmed Aramis’ ass, spreading him open, and began to work at his belts with the other.

“No...” Aramis said, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper.

“No? What’s this—are you prepared to beg now?” Rochefort said menacingly. He let go of his belt buckle and shot his hand toward Aramis, twisting his fingers into his hair. In one brutal motion, Rochefort wrenched back Aramis’ head and ground his still-clothed arousal against the musketeer’s ass. He brought his lips to his prisoner’s ear. “You won’t plead for me to stop, will you?”

His fingers dug into Aramis’ flank and the musketeer whined.

“I’d wager you’ve laid with as many men as you have women. You’re nothing but a slut.”

He rolled his hips forward and shivered at the sensation. The firm but yielding muscles of Aramis’ backside pressed against his stiffening flesh.

“No. You’ll beg me to fuck you. You want my cock inside you.” Rochefort spat out the words and pushed Aramis’ face back into the table before releasing his grip on his hair. He clawed his fingers down the scores marring Aramis’ back and returned his hand to his belt. In a few quick motions, he freed his straining member.

His restraint exhausted, Rochefort guided his cock—thick and swollen with need—to the pucker of flesh before him. He pushed just enough for the tip of his erection to disappear inside, and he let out a throaty groan at the warm pressure that swallowed him. With both hands, he grasped Aramis’ hips, jerking them back and snapping his own forward.

Aramis’ pained howl mingled with Rochefort’s moan of pleasure as he seated himself fully in one swift movement. Aramis’ muscles clenched around Rochefort and he thrilled at the sheer, intoxicating heat of him. Slowly, Rochefort pulled back, relishing the hot, wet slide of flesh against flesh, the pulse of Aramis’ panicked heartbeat resonating through him. 

He lowered his gaze to where their bodies were joined and his breath caught at the sight. His shaft was full and flushed, tinged even redder by Aramis’ blood. Being partially unsheathed, even for such a short moment, fueled Rochefort’s need all the more—the need to move, to lose himself to the thrumming, sweetly painful pressure building inside him, to rut into the man before him like some savage beast. He heaved himself inside Aramis, feeling the firm resistance and eventual give of Aramis’ inner walls against his hard arousal as he moved in a punishing rhythm. 

Each thrust of his hips pressed him flush against Aramis and elicited a choked noise from the musketeer. Rochefort let out a breathy chuckle.

“You're still so tight.” He punctuated his last word with a stab of his cock.

Had he the ability, Rochefort would have drawn out the musketeer’s humiliation indefinitely, but his need for completion steadily mounted, propelling his body into a quick, frenzied motion. He could feel himself reaching the precipice of his desire, his hips driving forward and his breath huffing out in time with his exertions. 

The musketeer had gone disappointingly rigid, no longer writhing and struggling, but rather steeling himself again the assault. But Aramis’ attempt to distance himself only made the responses Rochefort tore from him all the more rewarding. Rochefort felt each of Aramis’ shudders, each small cry, as a wave of carnal pleasure crashing over him, engulfing him. 

He sank his fingers into the musketeer’s hips with bruising strength and impaled him on his cock, finally coming into the pliant body before him with a yell of pure abandon. Rochefort’s eyelids fluttered closed and he let out a long, lascivious groan at the sensation of emptying himself deep inside. His member gradually began to soften and the squeezing pressure of Aramis’ ravaged muscles was almost too overpowering against his sensitive flesh. Still, he languidly pumped himself into Aramis before reluctantly pulling out and tucking himself back into his trousers.

Rochefort kept one hand on Aramis’ hip, loath to let go of the warm, tantalizing body, even though he had spent himself. With a pleased sigh, Rochefort ran his hand across one taut buttock and palmed him open. A trail of Rochefort’s release leaked from Aramis, mixing with a rivulet of blood that slowly began to trace its way down his inner thigh. He watched the reddened thread as it curved across quivering muscles sheened in sweat and felt his member twitch feebly. Perhaps he would have time again later. 

Finally, he removed his hand in order to straighten his clothing. Aramis had once more pressed his forehead against the table, small gasps shuddering out of him roughly as he tried to regain control of his breathing. The musketeer seemed to eventually relax ever so slightly—his stomach and arms flattening against the table—as though he was willing himself to rest. Rochefort sneered. His reprieve would be short-lived.

“I wonder, what would the Queen think of you now?” Aramis stiffed again at Rochefort’s voice echoing through the chamber. “Although, there is little point in wondering—I will know her mind soon enough. Shall I describe it to you? The look on her face when she learns how utterly I have unmanned her lover.”

Without a word, Aramis lifted his head. His black eyes shone fiercely in the low light, as though they were imbued by the fiery hatred he felt for Rochefort. The musketeer’s glare was like a physical thing, piercing straight into Rochefort’s core. 

He twisted his smirk further to keep it from faltering, turned on his heel, and strode out of the room. The door thudded shut behind him.


End file.
